Cough, the engines went. Sput-t—sputt-t-t-chk! The tank needed an overhauling badly, Wade realized. He wished he had left it in Singapore until the job had been completed. But there would have been no time, had he done so. As it was, time was dangerously short. Duke Solent already had acquired power of some sort in the valley. But how?
Those questions could be answered later, Wade thought. Meanwhile, the most important thing was to get the Thunderbug into Minos, where it would not fall into Solent’s hands and be destroyed. Granted, of course, that the city held friends.
Land of mystery and ancient glamor! And now overrun with killers, the worst types of the outer world’s civilization. To Wade, who had lived so long in the lost valley, such intrusion seemed almost sacrilege. The incongruity of modern guns, hand grenades, dock rats and hired killers in Minos was, somehow, subtly degrading. Like a black blotch of fungus on a marble statue of pure beauty.
Wade’s mind went back to a long-ago day when brigands had attacked an isolated Chinese Buddhist temple, a marvel of jade and bronze and ebony. He had felt the same way then. And he had had no compunction in machine-gunning the brigands, at that time, for their weapons had been superior to his own. And once, in the silent fastnesses of Tibet, battling in the air against roaring planes, he had glanced down and seen the bleak, ascetic bulk of a lamasery against the snowy peak. It had stood there for centuries, untouched by greed and hatred and evil.
And now Minos—cheapened, somehow, desecrated by Solent and his murderous crew.
The great wall loomed ahead. To left and to right it stretched, tall and grimly undecorated, save for sentries who paced the walls, tiny silhouettes against the dying light. The road led directly to the tall bronze gates, three times higher than a man, decorated with carving of the Minotaur. Wade sent the light tank heading directly toward it.
“They’ve spotted us,” he said, over his shoulder. “We may have to back up in a hurry. Keep extra clips handy.”
Dirk, busy with a rifle, nodded. Red, handicapped by his wounded arm, was awkwardly adjusting a small machine-gun.
The great gates swung open. Wade felt himself getting tense. The next few moments would be important indeed.
THE swift twilight of the tropic was falling. The sun dipped behind the western peaks. A shadow fell on Minos.
Beyond the open gates were the towers and buildings of a city. The road led into a cleared space, a square in which many Cretans were thronged. Wade stopped the Thunderbug just short of the gateway, peering through the bullet-proof glass window.
Minoan women, in their striped full skirts and neat bodices, strapped tightly about their middles. Men, in scanty, tight skirts and broad-shouldered tunics, carrying shields and short-swords, javelins, bows, and spears. The Cretans of Minos, watching the gateway.
Out of the throng a man strode, white-bearded and tall. He came forward fearlessly, his arm lifted in salute. Wade sighed in gusty relief.
“Okay, boys,” he said. “That’s Cardoth, the king-priest. We’ll be safe in Minos. For awhile, anyhow.”
He sent the Thunderbug lurching forward. The bronze gates crashed closed behind them.
They were in Minos—lost to the world for untold centuries! The heart of a secret, forgotten civilization!
Minos—the mystery of mysteries!
There was a queer, warm feeling in Thunder Jim’s chest as he stepped out of the Thunderbug and advanced to meet Cardoth. Many years before, a child stunned by the Spad’s crash, he had been carried over these same stones. And often he had walked upon them as he had grown older, sometimes with Miggs, the little Cockney, at his side. It was like opening again a dearly loved book not read since boyhood.
The dim, ghostly twilight made the scene unreal. The walls towered up endlessly, gray as the somber skies. With the coming of night, a chill wind blew down from the surrounding mountains. Torches were aflame here and there in the square. A curious silence hung over all. The mob was not demonstrative. They did not shout—they scarcely seemed to whisper.
Wade gave a strange, archaic salute, and Cardoth acknowledged it. The king-priest was very old, yet his lean body was not bent by age. Bright, keen eyes flashed from under tufted white brows. The oldster’s nose was a scimitar-beak. Unlike the broad-shouldered, squat Minoans he was tall, wiry and lean.
“You have come back, my son,” he said simply. “I am glad.” He put out his hand. “Let us greet each other in the way of your people.”
Wade wrung the hard hand. This was homecoming—to the only real home he had ever known. Abruptly he felt an aching longing that he knew could never be fulfilled. A home. But he was Thunder Jim Wade! Always he must pay the price his strange background exacted. Always must he remain homeless, a wanderer in far places, and an avenger.
Yet his youth lay buried here in Minos, with the bones of his father, and with little Miggs, the Cockney pilot. He could never forget that.
“It is good to see you, Cardoth,” he said. “But let us talk in English, if you remember? My friends do not speak Minoan, and only a few words or more of Greek.”
The king-priest bent his white head. “So. Come to my palace, with your friends.”
HE saluted Red and Dirk and, as they stared, extended his hand. They shook it, surprised at the old man’s strength.
“My machine—” Wade said.
Cardoth looked at the Thunderbug. “The outside world holds strong magic, as we have lately found to our cost. But it will be safe here. The gates are barred and there are sentries. I will post guards, though.”
He called a command, and soldiers pushed forward, armed with short swords and javelins. Silently they formed a cordon around the tank.
Cardoth beckoned. He led the way between the silent throng that opened before them and closed again in their wake. A chariot, drawn by two black horses, waited. Riding in it through the flame-lit streets of Minos, Wade could almost believe that he had stepped back into his fantastic youth. The towers and domes of the city rose up all about him. And ever the people watched, silently, with an air of waiting.
The palace was surprisingly simple. In a plain, quiet room high up in a tower, undecorated save for a frieze about the walls, Wade and his companions faced Cardoth at last, relaxing on soft cushions. From a window came the sound of a rushing torrent—Argo River, far below. The palace was by the west wall of Minos, where the stream ran.
“You will wish to refresh yourselves,” Cardoth had just said.
“Time for that later,” Wade said promptly. “Just now, we’d better talk, eh?”
“As you wish. But you can eat and drink as you speak.”
Girls in the odd Minoan costume came hurrying in response to Cardoth’s summons. Speedily they returned with wine and food.
Wade watched Red light one of his twisted black cigars. He caught the king-priest’s glance, and smiled.
“You remember Miggs? He was always unhappy because there was no tobacco here. This is what he meant by cigars, Cardoth.”
“So?” The oldster was interested. “I should like to try it.”
“Try a cigarette,” Wade said hastily. He knew the strength of Red’s cigars.
Cardoth took one of the small white cylinders, and was soon puffing away interestedly, delighted with the new sensation.
“So this is what little Miggs wanted,” he murmured. “Well, it is pleasant…. But we have other things to talk about. You come in good time, son. Strange that both of you—you and Professor Galbraith, who was here so many years ago and took you away with him—should arrive a day or two apart.”
Wade grunted. So Galbraith was here! Good!
“Just what happened?” he asked.
Cardoth was smoking with unhurried calm. “We are besieged in Minos. But I had better begin at the start. For a long time a priest named Yaton—”
“Yaton?” Wade repeated sharply.
“You know him? So… He chafed under my rule. He gathered malcontents about him. But they could do nothing. The bulk of the
people were satisfied. Yaton is cruel, and if he had his way, there would be many more sacrifices to the Minotaur than there are now. At present only convicted criminals enter the Labyrinth to die. Well—well, I have my spies.”
HE examined the cigarette with interest.
“A man named—what is it?—Solent, came into the valley in a plane. Like the one that brought you and Miggs and your father, only more modern, I suppose. He had Professor Galbraith with him as a prisoner. We did not know that at first. Later, too late, we learned the truth. Solent wished to acquire a treasure he believes the valley holds. Yaton wished to rule. Inevitably, the two found each other, and helped each other. Yaton said he would give Solent the secret provided Solent helped him become king-priest of Minos. Thus the two are allies, now, against me.”
Wade’s face was expressionless.
“And?”
“They hold the sacred valley of the Minotaur. I fled here to Minos. I could see Solent and his men were evil, and only evil could come of dealing with them. They wish to conquer us, kill me, and enslave and rule the people. Yaton will become king-priest, and he will not be a good one. The Minotaur will have far too many sacrifices.”
“I get it,” Wade said. “They’re going to march on Minos.”
“Yes. All the people have fled into the city. We are not well armed against the weapons of the outside world. But we have courage. Yaton and Solent will not conquer us easily.”
“So,” Jim Wade said thoughtfully, “Yaton and Solent have Galbraith a captive in the sacred valley.”
Chapter XI
Besieged City
GOING over to the window, Thunder Jim stared down at the long sweep of tower that merged into the city wall, and then the cliff that dropped sharply away to the moonlight surface of Argo River far below. The water’s rushing murmur came up to him softly. What treasure, unknown to him, could possibly exist here?
“Solent has modern weapons, of course,” he said, turning abruptly, his tall figure outlined against the blackness behind the window. “That means guns, dynamite, and so forth. What about his plane?”
“It was damaged,” Cardoth said, with the trace of a sly smile behind his beard. “As I said, I have my—spies!”
Wade nodded appreciatively. The king-priest was no fool. He would make a good ally. And the Minoans, hard, trained fighters, would not be useless. But the thought of seeing them fall in dozens before machine-gun fire was sickening to Wade.
He looked at Red and Dirk.
“Solent can’t attack by air,” he said, then turned back to the king-priest.
“He—how many men are against us, Cardoth?”
“Not many. Six hundred altogether, perhaps. We are many more.”
“But you have no guns. That’s why Solent wanted the Thunderbug, of course. To attack by air. He doesn’t really need the tank. Dynamite can breach holes in these walls easily enough. We haven’t much of a chance.”
“The Thunderbug?” Dirk said quietly.
“Those engines are badly strained. It’ll take days to repair the machine. We can’t depend on that.”
“We have weapons, too.”
“Some. Yes. But not enough to defend a city. Solent isn’t a fool. He has his own men, and he’s trained the priests by now to use guns.”
“We can do that, too,” Dirk said emphatically.
Wade scowled. “Yeah—yeah. But I wish we could use the Thunderbug. Drop a few bombs on those boys, and they’d hightail it pronto.”
Red gnawed his cigar. “We got some ammunition, but not such a lot. Even if we could train the Minoan soldiers to use gats, it’d take awhile. And badly trained soldiers are muy malo.”
“Our men have courage,” Cardoth said.
Wade smiled at him pacifyingly. “Of course. But in a fight they’d probably forget the guns and depend on their own weapons—spears and arrows. How much time have we, do you think?”
The king-priest shrugged. “I do not know that. Days—or perhaps only hours.” He rose as a gong clanged sharply from the distance. “Wait. This may be a messenger.”
Presently a stocky, broad-shouldered priest was ushered into the room. Sweat still made channels in his grimy cheeks. He bowed low before Cardoth, sending a glance of swift inquiry at the three Americans.
“There is news, Highness.”
“Then say it,” Cardoth commanded. “These men are to be trusted.”
Wade felt again that queer warning thrill of danger. He sensed menace in the air, a breathless expectancy that tingled through his body.
Red and Dirk felt it, too. Their eyes were bright.
“This is Rezzar, one of my spies,” the king-priest said. “He has just returned from the Minotaur valley, where he pretended to be a priest of Yaton.”
REZZAR nodded. “Aye. They attack at noon tomorrow, in full force. The slant-eyed man—”
“Solent?” Wade asked.
“Yes, Solent. He was waiting for something, but decided not to wait.”
“He was waiting for the Thunderbug, in case it got past that trap they set for us back in the jungle,” Wade explained. “We got away, so the longer he delays now, the longer we have to prepare for him.”
“More than six hundred men will march on Minos,” Rezzar said. “I—I had difficulty in escaping.” He glanced at a bloody scratch on his bare, bronzed arm. “They will come with strange new weapons, and the powder that explodes.”
“Grenades—dynamite—machine-guns,” Red growled. “This’ll be slaughter!”
“Do you know of Professor Galbraith?” Wade asked suddenly, and the spy priest nodded.
“He is Yaton’s prisoner.”
“Do you know what they intend to do with him?”
Rezzar shrugged. “They will kill him, I suppose.” He turned to Cardoth. “If you have no orders for me, I shall go to join the soldiers who will be defending Minos tomorrow.”
The king-priest smiled. “You are a brave man, Rezzar. Yes, go. Our gods guard you!”
Then, for a time, there was silence in the room. Wade went to the window again and stared down, pondering. So the attack would be at noon tomorrow? So little time left in which to prepare! He turned.
“We have a night and half a day to train the soldiers. Spread the guns around as much as possible. Train as many as you can, so there’ll be reserves. And get to work on the Thunderbug. There’s a chance—a long one—that we can get it working by noon tomorrow. Before the attack. So hop to it!”
Dirk nodded silently. Red’s shaggy brows came together.
“What about you?”
“I’m going back to the sacred valley,” Wade told him. “Cardoth, can I be disguised as a priest?”
“You are tall—too tall,” the ruler said hesitantly. “But we can try.”
“You’re going back?” Red broke in. “Why the—”
“Sabotage,” Wade explained. “Fifth Column work. I want to try and cripple the attack at the source, if I can. I can save Galbraith, too.”
The giant scowled. “Well, why can’t Dirk and I go along. You might need us.”
“Because I might fail—be captured, or killed. Then everything would depend on you guys. On your guns, and on the Thunderbug, if you can repair it in time.”
“Fat chance,” Dirk muttered. But Red eyed his big capable hands a nodded.
“Bueno.”
Wade stretched his muscular body.
“Cardoth—”
THE king-priest signaled for an attendant. He gave swift orders, and followed the American as he was conducted out.
“I had better go with your friends, my son, and confirm what they do,” he offered.
“Yeah. Thanks.”
Wade was removing his clothing as he walked. He waved at Red and Dirk, saluted the king-priest, and went on.
Soon he found himself in a huge, cool bath, lit by torches. A deep basin was sunk in the stone floor. Servants were busy, bringing clothing, strigils, and other necessities.
Twenty minute
s later Wade was transformed. He was still too tall for an average Minoan, but there were some tall men among the natives. He wore the customary short skirt and blue bodice of a priest, covered by a loose cloak. On his head was a plumed hood.
He stood looking at his reflection in a steel mirror. From beyond the window came the sound of noisy preparations as Minos made ready for the invaders’ attack. Wade grunted and went to find the Thunderbug, from which he took some weapons that might come in handy.
He needed no guide to the sacred valley. Soon he was outside the city wall, its torch-lit glow fading behind him, hurrying northward on a fast horse whose hoofs drummed through the moonlit night.
The river was a silver stream on his left. Down the long slope he rode, and, at last, the narrow pass that led to the Labyrinth opened before him.
Wade dismounted, sending the horse away with a slap on its rump. He slipped into the shadows, peering ahead with wary eyes. There might be—would be—guards in the pass.
SILENTLY as a wind-blown leaf, Thunder Jim advanced.
Civilization seemed to drop from him like a useless cloak. He was back in the jungle now, where life and death were primeval and everyday occurrences. Where wariness and skill meant life, and weakness was a prelude to destruction.
Not physical weakness alone—no! A single false step, a betraying sound, a miscalculation in the dimensionless moonlight, any of these might bring death swift and inevitable. But Wade has a curious blend of ancient instinct and keen intelligence. He was not merely wise with the wisdom of the wilderness savage. He was an animal, a stalking carnivore, a puma with the alert mind of a man.
Like a shadow he moved, making no sound. His eyes were strange now, the pupils expanding until they seemed large and almost luminous—set stones in the hard, bronzed face. The wisdom of two races—of a forgotten, archaic civilization, and, of a modern, scientific world—mingled with the primitive, deadly instinct of the jungle. To have seen Wade now as he moved like a stalking beast through the gloom would have been to know why many feared him.
The careless, daredevil adventurer was gone. In his place was a Nemesis, relentless and inexorable. In his mind, Wade had condemned the killers who had brought blood and death into the lost valley, and the cold fury within him glittered in his jet eyes. He went on.
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